


Their Irreversible Past

by ghermez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: Kuroo Tetsurou has no idea why he wakes up fifteen years in the past.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	Their Irreversible Past

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: drug usage, alcohol consumption, and allusion to suicide. 
> 
> this is for @gabhimartins (twitter)

Kuroo has stopped counting the number of shots he’s taken. He could be on two or twenty. Frankly, he doesn’t give a fuck. He signals the bartender for another, but the club is loud—New Year’s Eve is always annoyingly festive. What is so fucking exciting about the New Year, anyway? All it has to offer is more misery for everyone. He looks around him, finds glittery grins on bright-eyed college-aged kids in every color and size, hugging, kissing. Some are even dancing like nobody's watching when in fact many, like him, are doing anything but. 

He gets up from his seat, his legs wobbly and weak, but makes it to the toilet. He’s finishing up his business and washing his hands when someone approaches him, dressed in all black. He’s got thick eyeliner on, making his grey eyes look impossibly lighter, his hair is short, and he wears a studded collar around his throat. He’s definitely into _that_ kind of play. Kuroo wonders if he should give this guy a piece of advice someone should have given to Kuroo.

 _Believe me. All of this stops being fun very soon_. Kuroo has learned that the hard way when the only man who ever made Kuroo’s blood pump hard let himself fall off a three-story building. 

“Wanna have fun, old man?”

He’s miffed that he’s called an old man, but then again, he does look like one. It’s a combination of dark circles under his eyes, the pathetic excuse for a hairdo he has, and the rumpled shirt out of which he didn’t bother to change when he got out of work. Mister describes him aptly. So, he shrugs, watches the young man take out a little baggie with a bit of white dust at the bottom. Ah, he gets it. He smirks and leans over the counter where the man has made perfectly thin lines. Kuroo takes the volunteered rolled up bill, covers one nostril, and takes a deep sniff.

* * *

Kuroo wakes up in a very bright room. He squints, cussing out his headache, but weirdly enough, his body isn’t as exhausted as it should be after the night he’s had of abusing alcohol and trying out funky substances in the men’s room. He lifts a hand to his face in an attempt to reduce the glare of the lights and can’t find the scar he’s always had on the back of his hand since that incident involving one of Oikawa’s brilliant ideas to make pork cutlet bowls at five a.m. in their dorm kitchen undetected.

Sounds begin to filter into the big white haze he’s in, and Kuroo hears the familiar squeaking of shoes on rubber flooring. It’s sounding a lot like a nightmare, to be honest, because the last place Kuroo wants to be in is a gym.

He sits up and, yeah, he’s in the gym, all right. It isn’t the one from his childhood, the floors he’s lunged at time after time, getting his chest acquainted with the motion, practicing until he’s made a name for himself and for his team. This gym, with its sickeningly bright green walls, has been built to host thousands of students’ activities, from basketball in one corner, to volleyball, and even gymnastics. Kuroo has spent many hours here, sweating his ass off, only to be benched for all four years of college. 

He wonders if this is his mind bringing up a reel of his worst memories. He wonders where he’ll be taken next.

The sounds of practice distract him from the irony, and he turns to see none other than Oikawa doing a jump serve that looked more like a spike. The speed and power and control might have distinguished Oikawa back in high school, but here, where he and Kuroo have ended up together, he’s just another Japanese boy. Underwhelming and replaceable. 

For a second, Kuroo’s breathless, watching that body move through the air, slicing it like it is no effort to manipulate every muscle. Oikawa is terrifying and beautiful, and there is nothing else Kuroo has ever wanted to see more than this. 

Once he’s done with the serve, his point irrefutable and scored, Oikawa reverts back to his usual sunny self, grin in place, and the obvious infatuation he has with this sport is clear in his expression. This is a blissed out on volleyball Oikawa. The Oikawa from Kuroo’s memories fifteen years ago when they were both scrambling to get a starting position amongst their towering teammates. Kuroo gets off the floor and walks to Oikawa. He wants to get a closer look. There’s a yearning in his chest he hasn’t allowed himself to feel so vividly in so long. 

“Hey, Kuroo,” Oikawa says, like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t been far too long since Kuroo has heard that name, said in _that_ voice. “Hm? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

He wipes at his face, finds that he is indeed crying, and the problem is that he can’t stop. Not yet. So, he does what any sane person would do in a dream where they see the love of their life, he hugs Oikawa close.

Oikawa’s slow to react, at first, then he’s laughing, murmuring a quiet, “What’s this? Did someone miss me during their nap?” Kuroo can’t find the words to describe what he’s feeling. _Miss_ is only a fraction. Not even the tip of the iceberg of longing he’s felt every day. Oikawa doesn’t seem to mind that Kuroo wraps him in tightly wound arms, burying his face in the juncture between neck and shoulder, he even rubs circles in Kuroo’s back, soothing him with little, “There, there, Kuroo. It’ll be all right.”

But it isn’t all right, and it’ll never be all right. He wants to scream these exact words when Oikawa kisses his temple. He jolts away. This feels so real. No matter how many years have passed, Kuroo would never, ever forget the way Oikawa kisses him. So feathery and soft, as if he doesn’t dare disturb Kuroo. Unaware for all the ways Oikawa undoes him.

He puts a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder and pinches his own cheek with the other. Ouch. That hurts. Wait. Does this mean he isn’t dreaming?

“Oikawa… What day is it today?” He is frantically searching for a sign that he hasn’t lost his mind. He looks around him, sees the falling snow outside. It snows that day in his memory as well.

Oikawa thinks—he always loses track of the date when he’s focused on one thing and lately, he’s been doing nothing but perfecting his jump serve. Kuroo remembers now. _It’s my only chance to rule the court._ “December 31, why?”

“No no, what…year?” He even shakes Oikawa a little, which makes his easy smile disappear.

“What’s wrong? You’re starting to freak me out.”

“Answer me!” he shouts.

“It’s 2013.”

Kuroo lets his hands fall from Oikawa’s shoulders, takes a step back, and then walks out of the gym. He can’t be here. There has to be some kind of karmic punishment for people like him—He can’t be in the past. Except he is. The chill bites his skin and slips into his lungs with every harsh breath he takes.

Oikawa has followed him outside, concern written on his countenance, but Kuroo can’t look at him now.

Today. It’s today. Oikawa gets a call from home today. He—Kuroo turns around and sees Oikawa at the threshold of the gym, foot in and foot out. “Have you gotten a call from your old teammate today?”

Oikawa shakes his head. His eyes are unreadable. The light inside makes a halo around him, the lines of his toughened body a sharp contrast, and Kuroo’s chest feels like it’s breaking all over again. He can’t be here. Not today of all days. Not to relive the nightmare all over again. He tilts his head to the heavens and lets out a scream.

“Let me out of here!”

Oikawa comes out, wraps Kuroo in his arms, tries to pull him inside but Kuroo has a mission to piss off God right now, and he needs to stand outside to do this. He ignores Oikawa’s beseeching, “Please, let’s get out of the chill. You’ll get a cold,” keeps shouting, hopes he’s waking up every living thing that dares to sleep when he’s feeling this way.

His voice sounds scratched and sore even to his ears, stops, and collapses into Oikawa’s patiently waiting embrace. He cries harder, lets tears of bitterness paint the harshest picture on his cheeks. Let the world know he is grieving what has not yet happened.

What is he doing here on this day? What can he do to change their irreversible future? He looks at Oikawa, sees the terror there, and his heart breaks again and again, until every piece is sharp, bites into his skin. This is divine judgement, he reckons, for a crime he has committed in his past life. He is being laughed at, sent to the worst night of his life, and given no instruction on how to proceed.

He doesn’t know when he has yielded to Oikawa’s request, but they’re similarly bundled up in thick jackets now. It’s dark, their feet walking down a nostalgic path bracketed by tall trees that have been robbed of their leaves. They tower overhead, branches heavy with snow. Some of it flutters down, coats Kuroo’s nose, and he sneezes.

“Tsk. Look what you got yourself into. Now what will you do if you have a cold and can’t play?”

_Doesn’t matter. I never play in a game. And neither do you._

He clamps down on his lips, keeping the ugly words imprisoned in his mouth. Instead, he looks at Oikawa, marvels at how his hair curls, sweaty and stiff, underneath his hat. He’s lifting a hand, taking Oikawa’s face in his hold, and a shocked, happy laugh leaves Kuroo’s lips.

“Oh, you’re”— _real_.

Oikawa’s real, and so is Kuroo. He’s really here in their old dorm room, small and stifling, but it’s their haven where they watch hours and hours of videoed games, marveling over every impossible feat, executed by kids even younger than them. Kuroo and Oikawa both have tasted the bitterness of those born with slightly more luck, more power, more genius. He toes off his shoes, takes off the jacket Oikawa pushed him into, and pretends he isn’t a man out of time.

He watches Oikawa move, instead. Maybe if he doesn’t get that phone call, if Oikawa never finds out about the car accident that has taken Iwaizumi’s life, that’ll mean that he won’t take the steps towards his doom. Kuroo’s blinking tears, rubbing them from his eyelashes—how does he still have water in him left from that fit he’s just thrown? He watches Oikawa, feeling like a wounded animal, feral and cautious, terrified. Every step he takes towards his desk makes Kuroo stiffen, almost rising from where he sits by their low table. Oikawa is aware of his staring but doesn’t comment. He disappears into the bathroom, comes out fifteen minutes later (Kuroo has counted) with his hair wet and changed into a soft pair of grey pajamas.

“Are you gonna?” Oikawa nods towards the door from whence he’s just emerged.

Kuroo gets up, but it’s not to the bath, it’s to corner Oikawa, each hand sliding against the wall behind him to bracket him. Oikawa freezes, but his body slowly drops its defense. He’s not entirely oblivious but Kuroo can’t offer an explanation to what’s turned him frenzied. He simply knows that if he is being punished, he might as well have one last taste. He steals a kiss, then another, ignores the panging in his chest at how good it is to have Oikawa clutch his hair and kiss him back.

They’re smiling at one another. Oikawa says, “What’s gotten into you?” love and adoration dense in his voice.

“Oikawa, want you—I want you,” he’s kissing the words into Oikawa’s neck, listening keenly to the breathless sigh Oikawa exhales.

It shocks Kuroo, the easy way Oikawa lays his palm, calloused fingertips prickly against Kuroo’s throat, curls like it like a comma around his pulse. “I’m right here, what’s with you? You look at me like I’m going to disappear.”

But there aren’t any words in Kuroo’s mind besides the litany of “need you” and the desperation lining his kisses. Oikawa opens up for him, the muted pink of his lips slick from their sloppy kissing, their hands roaming shoulders, legs arranged around hips, chests flexing. There’s urgency and desperation in Kuroo’s movements, confused eagerness in Oikawa’s.

Kuroo shudders when Oikawa’s hand sneaks under his shirt. It’s warm, so fucking warm, and he wants to sob until his eyes drop out of their sockets. He pulls Oikawa harder against him, knows he’s probably leaving bruises around Oikawa’s hips, but he doesn’t care. Let it hurt them both because any second now Kuroo might disappear and return to a reality far more permanent than the shape of his fingers on Oikawa’s creamy skin.

They’re interrupted by the buzzing of one of their phones and Kuroo freezes. No. This can’t happen. Not yet. He tries to keep Oikawa from parting but he can’t. Not when Oikawa’s mind is clearly preoccupied as he kisses him back.

“I gotta take that,” he mumbles against Kuroo’s lips.

Dejected, Kuroo lets him out of his hold, stares down at his hands and realizes that he can kind of see through them. He waves, squints down, but the jarring feeling doesn’t go away. He is see-through. He’s fading. He looks up, terrified of what’s happening and the way Oikawa’s voice chokes.

It’s happening, he thinks. All over again. And he has no way of putting a stop to it.

* * *

Kuroo wakes up to a lit room. He squints against the sunlight, wonders just what kind of hell is _this_ bright, then notices the IV attached to his arm.

He is tempted to tug it, just to see if any blood spurts out like in the movies. If he’s in hell, why does he need an IV for? Bitterness coats his tongue when he looks down and sees that, at least, he has his scar again. He’s woken up where he belongs in the timeline. He closes his eyes, knowing deep down in his chest, that the trip back in time has been nothing more than a terrible dream. But there’s a soft snore that interrupts his train of thought.

He looks to his left.

Oikawa sits there. Sprawled, really. His neck tilted at a dangerous angle, sleeping as peacefully as one can in a chair. He startles when Kuroo calls his voice, then his lashes flutter, a hand raised to wipe the sleep from the sides of his eyes—his extremely wrinkled eyes. He smiles when he sees Kuroo awake. “Happy New Year, asshole.”

“What year is it?”

Oikawa frowns. “How about the year you stop freaking me out, yeah?”

He can say the exact the same thing to him, but, realizing through his tears, he doesn’t have to. Oikawa is here. In the future. With him.


End file.
